New York, NY

New York, NY
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

RIVERSIDE PARK

CONSULATE

I bike across town to Patient’s Medical for my glutathione push. I come prepared (this time) because I’ve begun to read books about antioxidants.

The ride across town is often hellish. I sit on my bike stalled in dirty traffic.  I can’t zig zag in and out (any more)... it’s too precarious for my lazy feet. So I wait in line behind other stalled cars and I must look delusional... I must look like I think I'm driving an actual car.

I lock my bike up at the same street post on the corner of 42nd Street and Second Avenue. There are cement barricades on Second Avenue to deter terrorists from driving into the building (I guess).

I use these cement blocks to guide me to keep me steady as I walk to the building entrance.

I teeter my way precariously through the revolving doors. It takes focus, faith, and a little bit of (here goes nothing) to get myself though these moving doors.

I carry my bike seat in hand because it would be easy to take from my bike.

I see the black female security-guard (who knows me now) "Do you need to see my ID?" - (it's a struggle to balance myself and dig for my wallet)

"No, it's okay, I know you, you're here every week, you're alright." She smiles with genuine warmth. People like me more now because I struggle to walk.

Suddenly, a serious young man (in a suit with an earpiece) interrupts... He is all curt urgency.

"Is your bike parked on the corner?" He eyes the bike seat I'm holding.

"Um... I don't think so, no. " (Why am I denying this? I AM parked around the corner) "I mean, I guess so... why?"

"Is your bike white?"

"yeah"

"Has a little motor?"

"uh, yeah."

"You're here every week and leave your bike at that same spot?"

"Yeah, I do."

The female security guard jumps in, "He's just going to the doctor."

"You go to a doctor?"

"Yeah, on the ninth floor?"

He is affable and respectful now. I'm a sad disabled guy, doing his best to get around this big city.

"I'm glad I ran into you. The police are on their way to break the lock and take the bike away. It's a security risk. The Israeli and African Consulate are in this building. We have to take all precautions. But I'll let them know. Your bike's okay. I'll take care of it."

He smiles and I push away the bubble that appears above my head of the anguish and chaos my day would have been had I not randomly run into this guy. Or was it random? Is someone watching out for me? Is prayer protecting me?

I hobble to the elevator the security guard helps me. (The whole city of New York is actually very helpful. Everyone struggles here, selfishly fights for a little bit of their own space, so that when they see an opportunity to help someone genuinely in need, they pounce on it).

I get on the elevator and in my handicapped lazy (I'll talk to anyone) persona, I ask an elderly African American woman what a consulate is, or rather I put it to her this way "I guess, there are a lot of consulates in the building, do you know what the difference between an embassy and a consulate is?"

The woman doesn't explain what the difference is, she merely reports that she works at the African Consulate. This is a tricky way of evading the question (I think).

When she gets off on the seventh floor, there's a lot of African art and sculpture on the lobby walls.
_________________________

According to Answers.com

"A consulate is like a junior embassy. It's generally located in a busy tourist city, and takes care of minor diplomatic tasks such as issuing visas. The word consulate literally means office of the consul, who is a diplomat appointed to foster trade and take care of expatriates. You can read some pointed essays about the role of the modern day consulate at the American Foreign Service site.

Embassies are much bigger deals. The word embassy comes from the French ambassade, or office of the ambassador. Ambassadors are high-ranking diplomatic representatives who serve as spokespersons for their national governments. If one country recognizes the sovereignty of another, they generally establish an embassy there. Embassies take care of the same administrative duties as consulates, but they also represent their governments abroad.

This can be tricky business. For instance, the United States doesn't maintain an embassy in Taiwan (in order to maintain diplomatic relations with China), but it does operates a consulate there to take care of its overseas citizens. For an interesting online look at another prickly diplomatic relation, check out the U.S. Embassy in Malaysia, which features a reaction statement to the recent incarceration of Malaysia's former Deputy Prime Minister, Anwar Ibrahim.

You may recall the famous photograph from 1975 of American citizens ostensibly fleeing the American embassy in Saigon. The building was in fact an apartment complex across the street, but the message was clear: once the embassy leaves, the country symbolically leaves."

MIDTOWN TRAFFIC

I find it easy to talk to taxi drivers.

Today my driver is a short, comely, indian man with a full head of silver hair. (Picture a dark Michael J. Fox).

We get stuck in traffic and I apologize to my taxi driver. I tell him,

"I know the the hell that it is to get across town, from 14th to 59th, it's just hell. I know it first hand.  You can barely move. Sorry to drag you this way."

This elicits a verbose, impassioned, response. He is so quick with his diatribe that I feel compelled to roll up my window, sit up straight and lean in, making sure to hear everything he says.

"The city is getting more and more crowded!" (my driver has a discreet indian accent).

"I know!" I said, "Right? why is that? It’s too crowded, even walking on the streets."

"Because the city is packed with immigrants and international types! New york was smaller before. I've lived here twenty years, the city is getting too crowded!"

"But why would immigrants move here? It’s so crowded and expensive!"

"Well one reason is because immigrants can’t drive, and in New York you don’t need to drive to get around, the transit system gets them around, and there is still plenty of work here. There is nothing wrong with being an immigrant. I don't fault them. But these politicians, Bloomberg and Giuliani, they don’t bother with the real problems, they don’t talk to people, deal with what is really needed, they just create projects to look good, to get them reelected. Giuliani doubled the amount of medallion cabs when he was mayor. And he charged 200 thousand dollars a medallion. I wrote to him about this. He's creating more cars on the road but the roads are a mess. He didn’t want to deal with that, he didn't want to deal with the infrastructure, he just wanted to say he made a profit or 10 million dollars for the city through the sale of these cabs! And this idea Bloomberg had for (zone pricing) or paying tolls to drive into highly congested areas won’t work! It will just take MORE money out of everyone’s pocket... people will just spend the additional money to drive into the taxed zones, like they do for the bridges and tunnels. It won't stop anyone, it will just put more money in the city's pocket. You know, in other parts of the world, when people protest, the government will back down and listen to the people, but in the states, there is small uncommitted protest and the protesters always lose interest and the government gets away with it. Where does all this extra money go? I’m sick of it. I won’t give anymore money to Bloomberg."

And I think, it's all too complicated. If not this mangled regime, than another. The city is a tangled knot. I am a self involved creative type. I do have ideas, but I know these ideas lack reality. I enjoy the closed down roads and the new dining tables, the pretty trees! I was hoping for a shiny monorail for 42nd Street. I'm a sucker for the externals.

But I say, "Well I’m one of those bikers that’s clogging up the streets for you taxis. You taxi drivers probably hate all the additional bikes on the road. Today I can’t ride my bike because I hit my head and now I'm going to get a cat scan"

"So you’re going to NYU Hospital?"

"Yeah, for a cat scan."

"How did you hit your head, what street?"

"No, I fell backwards in my apartment and hit my head on the floor."

I explain to the cabbie that I have a disease, that I was fully functional a year ago. The cabbie' s mood becomes dark and quiet, like he feels stupid for going on about traffic and taxes.

When he drops me off, like all of my taxi drivers, he gets out and helps me out of the cab.

I'm out of the cab, on my feet, cane in hand, and my cabbie looks me in the eye (he's shorter than me) and says, "I'll pray for you."

WAITING FOR CAT SCAN

New York, NY
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

HUDSON RIVER BIKE PATH

New York, NY
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

Franck Gehry

New York, NY
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

VIDEO OF WORK IN PROGRESS

TALIAH PAINTING A STUDY OF THE SCHWINN

I FALL

I stand up from the couch. I am knee deep in piles of papers and boxes and my new paper shredder.
I stand up from the couch with a shoe box marked "machine directions" a shoe box I keep full of warrantees and directions for all of the things I have bought through the years. I've weeded through the box eliminating literature for the things I no longer own. I stand up with the box marked "machine directions" to carry it to my front-hall closet and I as I approach my small front hallway near the front-hall closet, I fall.

I fall backward without a fight (since there are no muscles in my legs to stop me) (I feel like they're there but they're not there) and I fall backward with quiet abandon, the way one might release and let go into a swimming pool or a pile of stacked mattresses. I fall, and as I fall I try to hold my head up (leaning it forward) but at impact my head bounces on the hard parquet floor with one simple thud.

It takes a while for me to understand what has happened. I lie there.

And then, I call (outloud) for help (to who?) because I'm in shock (more than anything else) -
like I've been mugged in my small front hallway.

I get myself up (in the way that I do now - it's complicated) and lie on my bed in the dark and call my sister.

Am I dizzy, am I nauseous? she asks.

No, I'm fine. I just don't want to do the wrong thing here, I'm not sure what to do.

Well, you shouldn't go to sleep. You need to stay up.

For how long?

Well, you're supposed to stay up for like ... 24 hours but how do you feel?

I'm a little in shock. I'm tired. I biked to the park today, I did some swimming and some cleaning... I'm tired of this stuff I have to do, but I guess ... this is my destiny.
Wait, I think my chicken is done.

I sit up to check on the oven -

wait, wait now I feel dizzy and nauseous.

OH CHARLIE! Do you want to call an ambulance?!

No, I don't think I want call an ambulance (imagining the exhaustion of going to the hospital- the paperwork- the bills!  I'm still in my bathing suit from swimming). I think I'll be fine.

We decide that she'll check in with me later in the evening and all fears recede as this new uninvited fear takes center stage.

________________________

Hudson RIver Bike Path

Hudson RIver Bike Path
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

Monday

photo.jpg
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

BRIGHTON BEACH

BRIGHTON BEACH MEMOIRS is reviewed in the Times today.
I played Eugene in summer stock. I remember one performance when I broke up on stage.
It took stamina and control and several minutes to get back. This may have been the loveliest moment of my life.

The theatre was old fashioned and had a curtain that came down (it dropped) at the end of an act.
I loved being on stage and experiencing that old fashioned curtain falling in front of me.

I really miss that.

Central Park

Central Park
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

Central Park

Central Park
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

Central Park

Central Park
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

Central Park

Central Park
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

STOP MOTION

I stumble around nervously preparing for my trip to Danbury Connecticut.

I'm seeing a nutritionalist. The nutritionalist has a protocol for ALS.

I filled out a ten page survey that asked identical questions (over and over again) like it was trying to catch me at a lie.  On page one, "Do you experience gas after eating?" On page three, "After a meal, do you feel bloated and pass gas?" There were many questions about the color of one's urine and the shapes of one's feces.

I put this completed survey, along with all of my supplements, into a rolling suitcase.

I shower and shave and wear a new sky-blue v-neck sweater and clean khakis to look respectable if I happen to fall, pawing my way through Grand Central Station.

I close the door to my apartment with the cat stepping over an empty soy milk cartono on the hallway floor, the living-room lights still on, because I am too tired for a final round of tidying up.

I get a cab right away.

The cabbie, African American and super nice, sees me step off the curb holding onto a nearby awning pole (like I alone) am experiencing a small earthquake.

"Grand Central, please, and do you think it would be possible to turn around when we get there so that we're facing west, so that I don't have to cross the street? I'm having problems with my legs..."

"I know that." He cuts me off but not in a strident way, more in a concerned caring way.

He has marked me as a special passenger and he wants to do good.

"Let me think about this, let me give it some thought... the thing is U- turns are not good around at the station because the cops are everywhere. I can drop you off at Vanderbilt and 43rd?"

"Sure, that's fine, I'll use the escalator (t hinking he was talking about the entrance to the Pan Am Building... and now I realize in my own head, that it's not called the Pan Am building anymore, it's' the Metro Life Building... right?

"No, no, no, that won't work... there are stairs.  dIt's the big grand entrance with all the stairs." my cabbie tells me.

"Yeah, that wouldn't be good. I'd never be able to get down all those stairs.  You know what?  Don't worry about it. I'll just ask for help crossing the street. I've never done it before, but I can do that.

I'll do that!"

When the cabbie stops at Grand Central, he gets out of the cab to open my door and flags down a nearby commuter to walk me across the street. This was unexpected.

I rest my hand on the man's shoulder.

We have a while for traffic to stop so we can cross the street.

There is that uncertain expectation of what will come next when the walks sign turns green.
Will we perform well together?

As we wait, I look down. I am present (and) I am not present.

I talk a lot. I jabber warmly politely.

"I asked the cabbie to drop me off in front of the station but he couldn't get close enough so... that's why he asked you to help. I have a neurological problem... my legs seem to be getting weaker and weaker.  I've never asked anyone to help me walk across a street before, this is the first time. I guess I should get a cane, every day is different.. I never know what each day will bring..."

(and so on). This is a dream. If I talk enough, it's not really happening (or) I'm not really experiencing it.

My good samaritan is Australian and big and my age. He gently comments and smiles here and there.

He leads me to Grand Central. I land on a wall to lean on.

"Thank you so much, I really appreciate it, I think I can find my way along the walls, from here."

He smiles and looks me in the eye, "My pleasure. Cheers!"

And I am solo in the irritable rushing masses of Grand Central, a building that I have experienced my whole life. As a toddler, going to work with my Dad at the Tribune building. The years and years as a kid commuting for auditions. As a teenager escaping the suburbs. There has always been Grand Central and I've seen many versions of it. I like it. I feel home there and as I struggle through the familiar grandeur,  I  feel sad and ashamed of my current form, as if the station can see me, knows me, as well as I know it.

I have to make my way across the vast expanse of the main room (without the use of any walls).

Midway... I flail. Like a stop-motion animated character doing a pirouette, my arms jab out in the air at once, I spin on one foot, I claw at the air.

"DO YOU NEED HELP?!"

 "yeah, I do. I need help."

Julie, a blonde, middle-aged, smart, woman, brittle with glasses, practical and reliable, she looks like she was an english lit major at Barnard.  She wears pants and a fitted Burberry raincoat.  She is concerned and also slightly alarmed to the point of almost being annoyed, like a teacher discovering a kid in the library when he should be outside for recess.

She leads me to my gate.  I (again) blabber defensively.

"I have some problems and my legs seem to be getting weaker."

"You shouldn't be walking alone like this."

"Well, it's a new discovery every day.  I'm never sure what the day will bring."

'You should get a cane."

"I think you're right. I should. I'm not making you late am I?"

"No, I'm fine. Have they named it?" (Juile jumps right in. She's nails my the seriousness of the issue right away and phrases her question in a way that  plays to my defensiveness).

"Um.. yeah they have... but I don't really want to go with that or it."

Julie nods but this bothers her (I think).

I continue to blabber on to cover up the plodding walk to track 17.

"This is all new to me, I've lived in the area my whole life that I've mostly been a working actor."

Julie doesn't pick up on any of the cues I offer. This information I offer is irrelevant.

She drops me off at a rail by the train.

I thank her and she disappears quickly like I WAS making her late.

I grip the rail, and then steady myself using the side of the train, until I can get inside a car.
My hands are black. I don't care.

In Fairfield, the leaves are changing!

I see the nutritionalist. We talk antioxidants for two hours. I take notes.

I have dinner with my sister and Elliott.

Elliot lends me a cane his grandfather made from an apple branch.

I like it.

They drive me back to New York.